


The Lifelike Figurine

by Zandrae



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Backstory, Bittersweet Ending, Cruelty, Felblood Elf, Gen, Horns, Human Experimentation, Kidnapping, Sin'dorei, Starvation, Torture, Wings, blood elf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zandrae/pseuds/Zandrae
Summary: A bratty young noble High Elf loses everything in the fall of Quel'thalas, then life gets worse than he could ever imagine.





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains situations that involve imprisonment, extreme starvation, and torture, though it is not of graphical nature. If you are extremely disturbed by this type of content, you may wish to skip this story.

Aeinnar could not remember how long his he had been imprisoned. Most of his childhood was a vague haze at this point, a blur of bits and pieces, fragments of memories, of situations—situations that haunted him. His earliest prominent memories were of him playing with his childhood friend, his only real friend. 

Aeinnar was a young elven noble with long red hair, a fiery color that shined in the sun like copper. The sun kissed his fair skin with a spattering of ruddy freckles, especially across his nose and cheekbones. He wore elegant red silken robes, the esteemed son of a pair of fire magi. He lived on a small hill on one side of town, a waterfront to the west. He remembered wanting for nothing, that any wish he desired was his. 

His friend was the son of his parent's servants, a boy who, in turn, had the destiny of being Aeinnar's most loyal assistant. Aeinnar remembered being a bully to the other boy, Zacal Shadeglory, ordering him around like a little tyrant. Aeinnar never knew Zacal's surname, just that the boy was his servant and friend. More than once the servant boy took the blame for Aeinnar's own mischief and the memories of all the times he had hurt Zacal, and all the times Zacal was kind to him, ruminated endlessly in the young man's mind.

Zacal looked different from Aeinnar, he was a few years older, taller, had an olive complexion and dark brown hair; he wore decent quality black slacks and a variety of somewhat ornamental red vests over neutral colored dress shirts. It made sense for a servant, even a young servant, of a household to wear the color of that household even if they were not of noble blood themselves. Zacal treated Aeinnar like a slightly spoiled baby brother.

Of all the memories that haunted Aeinnar, the most prominent was when Zacal saved his life. It was that fateful day when the gates to his homeland fell, later revealed as sabotage, and a horde of undead known as The Scourge tore through and ravaged the land of Quel'thalas. 

Aeinnar sat beneath a tree on the edge of the beach not far from the family dock with a pile of books, enjoying a sunny afternoon without a care in the world. His family had prepared for a trip by sea and the family yacht was stocked and ready for embankment the following day. Aeinnar was so engrossed in the story he did not notice the commotion as the village beneath his family's hilltop estate burned. Zacal, however, noticed, grabbed the young Aeinnar by the arm, and dragged Aeinnar down the hill to the dock. Aeinnar was infuriated about his books he left behind as Zacal dropped the family's yacht into the water and ushered the other boy aboard. Aeinnar remembered Zacal telling him that bad people had come and that they needed to hide. 

With the utterings of a power word that enshrouded the seacraft and hid it from sight, the two embarked and traveled south until the boat sat in the shadows of the southern Thalassian mountain range where they dropped anchor and waited. Zacal preserved the power in the crystals that made the ship work; they ate food, consumed supplies, and supplemented it with conjured food and water for the two to eat while they hid. They played board games and waited.

A shockwave of sickness from the destruction of the Sunwell overtook them and they both grew sick. Zacal, in spite of his own condition, nursed Aeinnar back to health as best he could and soon Aeinnar recovered and took over conjuring and Zacal recovered enough to return to his role as caretaker and protector, though he never quite returned to full health after that. He always wore a weak, pained sort of smile. 

Tired of the boat and terribly homesick, Aeinnar commanded Zacal to take them home. Zacal claimed the anchor was stuck and that he'd need time to repair the mechanism before they could go. Aeinnar believed him, having no understanding of how the boat worked, including the simple locking mechanism on the anchor system. 

Eventually the thick black smoke over Quel'thalas thinned and Zacal turned the boat, pulled up the anchor, and they moved up the coastline, north, to survey the damage and hunt for other survivors. They looked up to the shore on the east, to the hilltop estate Aeinnar was raised in, and saw leveled ruins, smoldering, likely with bodies inside, and not a living soul within sight. It was gone, all of it, everyone. Aeinnar and Zacal's parents were no more.

The Scourge ravaged the ports of Quel'thalas, few boats or dock structures survived. Remains of the Thalassian military happily traded the boys' seacraft for a healthy sum of currency, which held them over until the Thalassain bank vaults stopped smoldering as well as ownership to a tiny abandoned condominium in the city, in one of the buildings lucky enough to have gone undamaged. The condominium, furnished, still had photos of the last occupant and their family, none of whom made it, upon the walls. 

Zacal cared for Aeinnar in the little condominium. He balanced the budget, he bought food, when they finally had access helped Aeinnar claim his family's fortune. Zacal sheltered Aeinnar from the horrors as much as he could but as time grew on Zacal grew agitated, the inherit addiction to magic that all Thalassian elves hit him severely. Aeinnar spent a small fortune on moonstones and got Zacal trained up in the methods Rommath brought in hopes to help him.

Eventually nothing could help Zacal's addiction pains; his body was rejecting magic so much that he was magically starving to death. His body began to shrivel and hunch, his skin lost its olive complexion and turned a sickly grey, and Zacal's thick brown hair began to thin until patches of scalp showed were visible between the remaining strands of hair on Zacal's head. The servant was dying, slowly, painfully. Still, Zacal tried to care for Aeinnar as much as possible. These memories were particularly painful, because at the time Aeinnar did not comprehend his caretaker's fate. He did understand Zacal was in pain and continued his attempts to help.

Aeinnar also understood that death could not be reversed and never demanded his parents’ lives restored, but this was Zacal. There had to be a cure for Zacal. He hired healers and they could not heal him. He commanded them; they said they could not help. No one had ever told Aeinnar that not even magic can solve some kinds of problems. No, the healers could not save Zacal, the disease spread too far. Magic could not save him. Nothing could save him.

Aeinnar remembered offering his late parent's fortune for a cure. He attempted to bribe and bargain with the healers as if they were holding out on him. The healers told him no again, that there was no cure. Aeinnar remembered holding the dying Zacal in his arms and begging him to live, commanding him. It was then that Aeinnar realized just how powerless he was against fate, how helpless and unprepared he was for the big scary world around him, and how much he needed and appreciated Zacal.

Aeinnar remembered Zacal looking up at him, smiling that weakened broken smile, and uttering his last words, "I'm sorry." It was then that Aeinnar learned that even the son of late powerful Magisters could not stop death. It was then that he learned he could not bargain and command his way out of everything. As Aeinnar returned home to his now empty flat, he found that for the first time in his life he was alone. Truly alone. He realized he had been an ungrateful brat to Zacal, threw unkind words, and never thanked him. 

Zacal's cremated remains arrived in a tiny plain wooden box and Aeinnar felt Zacal deserved more. He commissioned a metal urn decorated with gemstones and a motif of precious metal phoenix and the Light. He then bought a deposit box with the biggest, most stable bank in town, paid for a hundred years of use, and put the urn away under the name Zacal Aeinnar. The boy then sold his flat, spent his fortune on bonds, and tucked it all away in the lockbox. Then Aeinnar submitted himself to a youth home where he would be among other young elves with no family, where he might learn to be a normal person—a better person, a good person like Zacal.

Aeinnar found comfort among other young elves, even if they were not Zacal. He did not want to be alone anymore. He decided that he would continue his Magi training and sought out a mentor among the elder magi that survived in Quel'thalas. He found an advertisement in a library popular for elder magi seeking apprentices in Fairbreeze. Aeinnar traveled to Fairbreeze to request an apprenticeship, he figured he could make his late parents proud and he was accepted and told to go fetch his belongings and return.

On his way back to the youth home, cloaked, dark figures jumped him. He tried to fight back but a teenage adept's magic verses the magic and combat skill of full-grown adult Sin'dorei. He quickly fell to the ground, felt his attackers place a sealing spell on him, and a dark cloth bag placed over his head.


	2. Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aeinnar is imprisoned and transformed into a monster.

Aeinnar began a new life, imprisoned, and kept in a cage, one of many stacked cages with bars on the front and backsides, all in a movable bay. His space was about nine cubic feet. They called him "8156," his name did not matter, as far as his captors were concerned he was not a person, he was livestock. Silenced; his magic would not work, though not for lack of trying. Daily, at least he assumed it was daily, an orderly moved the cage bay into another room and sprayed with a powerful hose to clean its contents and blast away any debris within, kept the smell away. The blast of water was cold and painful and Aeinnar curled up in a ball and shielded his face for his own protection. The lights never turned out and he quickly lost count at what he assumed were days in captivity. Soon it felt like he had been a prisoner forever, in a state of constant fear, and longing for his life to end.

Aeinnar's captors frequently dragged the boy out of his cubby to an examination room with a mirrored wall. People working on him displayed him to the mirrored wall; he looked upon himself, a chained frightened elf. There were people on the other side, he knew they were there, watching as his captors injected him with strange fluids. When his examinations, injections, and proddings were completed, he would go back to the cage.

He learned quickly to not struggle. The first time Aeinnar struggled his handlers beat him within an inch of his life. Quickly he became a meek, pliable, easily handled captive that endured his torment without struggle. The less he fought, the less pain he endured, the sooner it ended, the sooner they would return him to his cage.

Aeinnar spent much of his time hungry; he could not even conjure food. The captors only fed the experiments small amounts of bland food after experimentation. It was enough to keep the prisoners alive, barely, but not enough to ease their hunger, nor fuel them enough that they had the energy to resist.

Over time, the boy saw himself change during his many visits to the mirrored wall. He watched himself lose weight, going from a normal and even slightly pudgy boy, to a lean elf, to a living skeleton. He aged as well in a manner one would expect from a young man, but his gaunt skin showed visible wrinkles as if he were middle aged. He had a growth spurt; his eyes grew tired, his face creased with frown lines and worry lines. The injections, too, caused changes in his physique over time. His skin turned a deep shade of crimson, his hands and feet turned black, leathery, and claw-like, then cracked, with fel energy glowing from within the cracks. He developed winglets, little black feathered ones, and little black horns. Eventually the black plumage gave way to feathers that matched his hair and he became a living skeleton with large ginger feathered wings and large reddish-black curling horns.

His claws were weapons, hard and sharp, but he dared not turn them on his captors. Instead, he tried to turn them on himself, but his attempts to escape his life in captivity failed. He was caught, healed with painful healing, then beaten again, his hands placed in protective mitts to prevent use of his claws. To prevent further fuss or willful defiance, his captors further restricted his food, until the boy had not the strength or ability to walk on his own. The orderlies dragged him to and from his cage with disregard for his comfort.

The experiments continued. Now they injected him with glowing orange liquid that burned him from the inside out. His eyes and fel green skin cracks eventually and permanently turned a glowing red-orange.

One day the lead experimenter walked into the storage room for an inspection. The experimenter poked the boy's bound and huddled form with a metal rod. Aeinnar did not move or even respond, he just sat in his profound hunger, and suffering the pain from the inner burning of fel and fire, which he could not use or control due to the silence. He heard the captor say something about, "potential perfect specimen, ready for preservation."

In the time that followed the inspection, he found himself transferred from the cage bay to a metal crate and injected with a sedative. The door closed and he could see the light of the room through some air holes, but as the sedative took hold, even they melted away to darkness.


	3. Preservation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now a monster, Aeinnar is preserved.

Aeinnar woke to the clacking of hooves and figured the sedative wore off early. He peered out of the air holes of his kennel and the light outside blinded him. Eventually his eyes adjusted and he saw green and brown, grass, dirt, trees, and blue sky in the distance. While his world had ended and his life was no more, while he became a caged animal, the outside world continued without him. In the grand scheme of things, this orphaned child of powerful noble Magisters did not matter. He felt small and insignificant. Maybe this was what he deserved; maybe this was his punishment for how he treated Zacal.

As the transport entered the gates of a compound, Aeinnar lay down and pretended to sleep. When the crate opened, they sedated him again, and he awoke strapped to a table with a device forcing his mouth open and he felt an agonizing pain in his rotting teeth. A man, a human man with terrifying ice blue eyes and ice-cold hands had said hands in Aeinnar's mouth. He was the source of Aeinnar's tooth pain; he was using a strange painful festering sort of magic to repair the boy's teeth. He spoke in a tongue the boy did not understand so he ignored it. The agony eventually ended and he found himself in a new, much larger cage.

This one had a toilet, a blanket, a pillow, and a surface to sleep on—not quite a bed, more like a piece of metal attached to the wall on one side and held in place by a pair of chains; Aeinnar could stretch out and fan his large wings with their scratchy unpleasant feeling ginger plumes. His hands remained in mitts, which made life difficult but he adapted as best he could.

Food came more often and another human, a woman, began caring for him, feeding him since he could not use his hands. The boy received more and more food and more injections. Soon he was able to walk again on his own. The woman chained him to a treadmill and made him walk, then run, on a machine until he fell exhausted. His feathers fell out and new, much healthier, much softer ones grew in. Weights became part of his regiment, they strapped them to his arms and legs, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror or other reflective surface. He was no longer a boy, he was a young man, he was developing lean muscle, and while he was a winged, freckled, red-skinned horned monster, he looked healthy and not a skeleton. He looked like the monster he felt like after how he had behaved during the beginning of his life when he was so cruel to Zacal. He found this all a fitting punishment for the terrible person he was. He looked as hideous as he felt.

Eventually two strong elven men came for him and shoved Aeinnar back in his kennel. The sedative came again, the world faded away, and once the kennel arrived at its new destination, he felt a powerful presence enter his mind and take control of his body. He crawled from the kennel, stood, and stepped onto a two-foot high platform. There were Magi there, casting a spell on him as Aeinnar's puppeteer posed him, head up, shoulders back, counterpoised—one leg bent, one arm and hand relaxed, the other tensed and balled, wings fanned out fully, feathers splayed, ears high, and eyes forward on an elven woman that seemed to be supervising. The spell finished and the presence departed. The boy was stuck. Aeinnar's heart stopped beating and he froze in stasis.

The workers removed the mitts, oiled his body, his wings, groomed his fingers, brushed his hair, preened every feather, glossed his lips, and put a fancy velvet loincloth on him. Then the elven woman paid an elven man and everyone else left, leaving the woman gazing at him. She smiled, "A perfect male specimen of lentiginosus sin'dorus ignis fel'avem in his prime, a red one even," her smirk was twisted and wicked. She walked away, satisfied with her acquisition.

The lights turn on, the lights turn off, people, mages, come and see him. Aeinnar lost track of how many viewings he endured. He tried to find a positive aspect in all of this. At least these people were receiving some sort of pleasure from viewing him; he was making them happy in a way. Aeinnar's mind learned to turn off his sight and hearing and occupied his mind with memories and thoughts. He relived the painful memories of his youth, when the servant boy Zacal cared for him, except this time he was not a spoiled brat, and he said things like "thank you" and "I'm sorry."

Eventually the woman grew bored of her toy and got a new one. Aeinnar found himself reduced in size by spell work to that of a tiny display and put in a box, fastened against a soft velvety surface; darkness enshrouded him as the lid slid onto said box. With a few brief exceptions, which included overhearing his sale to another captor, Aeinnar knew only silence, darkness, and the torturous eternal churning of his own mind as he lay trapped and stored away until someone wanted him again.


	4. Larceny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aeinnar's container is stolen and he overhears his new keepers.

For a long time, there was nothing but darkness, then there was commotion, and Aeinnar felt his hair move as gravity shifted, he heard a person, a woman muttering, his box landed with a soft thud and he realized from the position of his hair that he was face down towards the ground. He heard a loud metallic thud of a heavy door closing and then silence again. Aeinnar figured his new captor sold him to yet another new captor.

Sometime later, Aeinnar heard a symphony of voices talking, distant. In spite of this, he could pick out names, Cirdath, Brightmane, Pyreanor, Mourne, Ria, Iviaen, Kemnebi, Zandrae, a Society, something about a book, ghosts, and then silence again. After what felt like an eternity, Aeinnar felt his hair shift again back to the way it had been originally, against the soft velvety backboard his body was strapped to, and heard a sliding noise. He figured his new owners picked up his previously carelessly thrown box and put it on a proper shelf; he was both curious and terrified of these new captors.

After another extended silence Aeinnar could hear people talking, two men, they were listing off objects, names of books, identifying knickknacks. They were taking an inventory. One has a soft, smooth, pleasant sort of voice; the other had a deeper gruff voice. They discussed magic, archaeology, and even cracked jokes. Aeinnar laughed internally at the jokes, if these were his new captors then perhaps life was not as bad, at least he would be entertained. The two said goodnight, then returned sometime later. A day had passed, for the first time in ages Aeinnar had a grasp of passing time in the darkness, he waited, patiently, excited but fearful to see these new owners. Waiting is all he could do, trapped as he was, the stasis spell kept him frozen, but he could still see and still hear, and could feel shifts in his orientation.

These men sounded disgusted with the things they had found, Aeinnar was surprised. Were these new owners' good people instead of those who saw him as a thing, wished to poke at, or harm him? For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Aeinnar felt hope that maybe, just maybe, he might finally get help. However, these men could be evil, or they might harm him, or kill him, regardless, there was a chance for an end one way or another, better than his current fate.

The more cheerful, smooth voice called out, louder now than it was before. "Okay this box is labeled "8156, Male, Prime, Red. Lentiginosus Sin'dorus Ignis Fel'avem"" Aeinnar's box moved then light, blinding light flooded his prison, so bright that it blinded him for several minutes, as he stared straight ahead, his pupils frozen and unable to adjust. Eventually his eyes got used to the light after what seemed like an eternity in darkness and he could see the cheerful voice’s source. "It appears to be a figurine. I think... It is very lifelike, perhaps too lifelike," spoke the cheerful man as he peered down at the prisoner in the box. Aeinnar's heart sank; he could see the man was a magus of some sort with fel green eyes, just like the ones that had experimented on him before. 

This man was a chubby, white haired man with a small patch of facial hair on his chin, in traditional red, black, green, and gold Magister robes. The man lifted the box close so that all Aeinnar could see was his face, "Unsettlingly lifelike." He lowered Aeinnar's box and spoke again, "What if he's a person?" The chubby mage looked up and glanced off to one side.

The gruff voice from before replied, with a stinging sarcastic tone, "That's ridiculous Iviaen; it’s probably just a well-made figurine. Put it aside, you can take it to your room and play dollies with it later."

"Dalaen, this is serious," the cheerful chubby one replied and reached into the box. He touched Aeinnar, first on his chest, then his hair, then his left wing, curious, "He's very soft, even the tiny plumes feel real."

Aeinnar wanted to scream out, and move, and tell the cheerful one that he was right, that he is a real person not just some toy, but he could not.

The cheerful one's smile wilted and he put the lid back on the box, "I'm going to investigate this further. Be well Duskhallow."

The grumpy voice, Dalaen Duskhallow, let out a sigh, "Fine, fine. Be well then, Brightblaze."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This takes place at the same time as a roleplay scene and will be explained in a later story. Mourne/Cirdath and Ria are their own writer's properties.)


	5. Liberation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aeinnar is liberated.

It did not take long until the cheerful one, Aeinnar now knew as Iviaen Brightblaze, opened the box again. Once more, the light was blinding and Brightblaze reached into the box, untwisted the ties that held his body in place against the velvety backing of the box, and lifted Aeinnar out. 

Brightblaze set Aeinnar, the figurine, on a sheet of parchment on his desk. He looked the figurine over with a powerful magnifying glass that had a ring of glowing light crystals around the lens. To the prisoner, Brightblaze's glowing green eye seemed huge. Brightblaze used tools, like tweezers to aide in his examination of the figurine; he looked in the Aeinnar's eyes, in his ears, up his nose, at his fingers and toes, and even lifted up his loincloth. 

Aeinnar could see the room in his peripheral vision, a bed with red comforter, a cherry dresser, a matching footlocker, a small table in one corner with a couple of chairs, some faded red carpet, and red drapes. This mage was not some wealthy noble; his room was nice but not decadent like his previous captors. His was not the type to keep living experiments as a thing for admiring.

Brightblaze blinked at Aeinnar, "Anatomically correct. I'm convinced you were once alive. Perhaps you still are. Your body is too soft and too detailed for you not to be someone who was once alive. I don't know if you can hear me, or see, or feel, or even if your soul is still inside that body, but if it is, know that I'm going to work at finding a way to help you. I will put you back in the box to spare your eyes from this harsh light, but with any luck you'll be free within the hour, just hold on a little longer."

Back in the box Aeinnar went, back into the darkness. Aeinnar felt relief and sheer joy, someone who had compassion for him, who wanted to free him. Then he thought back to his image in the mirror before he was frozen. He was a monster, with his crimson freckled skin, his ginger hair, his now reddish-black horns, and his crimson large feathered wings. Even if he Mister Brightblaze freed him, he would never be able to walk among normal people. He was a monster. Fear once again overtook Aeinnar. 

Mister Brightblaze kept his word and soon he returned with another old mage, this one a silver haired arcanist with silver, white, and black wings peered at the figurine before hissing in response. The winged arcanist placed the figurine on the floor and very carefully unraveled the spell keeping the Aeinnar small. After a plea for peace instead of attacks, the silver haired mage released Aeinnar from his stasis spell and then from his silence spell.

Aeinnar bolted under Brightblaze's corner desk and curled into a shivering frightened fluttering ball, his body temperature was room temperature, and he was freezing. In the hour that followed the two mages, the winged one who called himself "Nuada Ashelar'thor" and Iviaen Brightblaze, fed Aeinnar, spoke kindly to him, and wrapped him in a warm plush blanket. They gave him a pen and paper to write on and eventually Nuada wrapped one of his wings around Aeinnar and led him to a room of his own "down below" where it's "safe" and he could be among the "flock." Aeinnar felt confused by the strange use of bird terms but felt comfortable and safe wrapped in Nuada's wing as he arrived in his new room.

Aeinnar identified himself as to Nuada and Iviaen by writing as "Aeinnar Ember..." with his last name incomplete, as he was not the same person he was originally. Aeinnar wrote another name "Zacal Aeinnar," a password, and a bank name on the paper and Brightblaze promised to fetch the contents of what was likely a deposit box at a bank for the young man. Nuada departed the room for some time to allow Aeinnar a moment to change out of his loincloth into normal clothing and get comfortable.

Aeinnar sat down on his new bed in his new room and got into clothing offered to him by Mister Nuada. Clothed, the boy crawled up to the pillows on the bed, curled into a little ball and began to sob. Nuada returned to his room and Aeinnar craned his head to see the silver arcanist followed by a man with red skin like Aeinnar's own, with large white wings and horns, someone just like Aeinnar. Even as a monster, Aeinnar was not alone. The man smiled and called himself Talethiel Dawnquill. Both Talethiel and Nuada sat beside Aeinnar and sheltered him under their wings.

Iviaen brought Aeinnar the crate from the bank lockbox with Zacal's remains and a sack of bonds for which Aeinnar had traded the remnants of his fortune for and Aeinnar curled around the urn, and sobbed.

Aeinnar sobbed himself to sleep with Zacal's remains and not one but two protectors watching vigil over him, all of his suffering, all of the guilt from reliving painful moments of his past over and over again while trapped in stasis, all escaping from his body in the form of hot tears that streamed down his face. His mind settled on one single question—was all the pain, the suffering, and the torture finally over? It was.

The nightmare was finally over and even though Aeinnar was a monster, he found himself not alone, surrounded by others like him, a "flock" of winged freak elves who cared for and nurtured him as one of their own. He also found himself surrounded by normal elves who were also compassionate and offered food, friendship, shelter, and safety to this freak flock. Aeinnar was finally home, wanted again, and loved in spite of his deformations.

After a few weeks of healing, kindness, and tender love and care, Aeinnar looked at the note where he had written his name, with incomplete last name. He took a fancy white quill, which probably came from Talethiel's wing, and finished writing his surname. 

From then on, his name was, "Aeinnar Emberwing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part of this is a summary of a roleplay scene and may be rewritten with a co-author in the future. Nuada belongs to Cethlenn.)


End file.
